


At Least I Have You

by officemonkey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Parent Death, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, based on another work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 10:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officemonkey/pseuds/officemonkey
Summary: Natasha has always been competing for Howard's attention - against Tony, against his work, against everything. Finally - just once - she seems to catch his eye.





	At Least I Have You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Anything Like Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661007) by [officemonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/officemonkey/pseuds/officemonkey). 



> This is heavily based on relationships established in my other work Anything Like Home (yes, updates will come for that, too). I wanted to take a break from the main story and get to know some of the other characters and where they're coming from. This, while interesting to write and a good help in getting me into Nat's headspace, didn't really fit with the main story, but I still wanted to share. Funny thing is, the longer I kept going, the more I wanted to make it its own series. 
> 
> But - one thing at a time. 
> 
> Hope you like it.

Natasha pauses in the dark hallway and slips off her sandals. The cold marble floor feels good on her bare feet. If she’d been alone, wandering around the building with no particular purpose, she would probably just lie right down and let it numb her head to toe, let all her tension  run off onto the smooth tiles. Still sounds like a pretty good idea. 

Not too late to back out. Howard never goes to these things, anyway. It’s a waste asking in the first place, and certainly a waste of her time coming to his offices after school instead of heading to the studio for extra rehearsal. At eleven, she’s one of the older girls in her class and she should be setting a good example. 

Maria already said she’d come. The academy is putting on  _ Giselle _ and Natasha has her first principal role. Of course Maria wouldn’t miss it. Front row, she promised, and she’d make Tony wear a proper suit and bring her flowers. He’s a humongous brat most days but he’ll sit in the studio and watch her, tap out the counts on the floor when she’s working on a difficult routine. She turns down his offer to redesign her pointe shoes on multiple occasions, so often they seem to have a script for the exchange. 

“It’s supposed to hurt,” she’d remind him, forcing blistered toes into well-worn rehearsal shoes. “If it didn’t hurt, anyone could do it.” 

He’d always do the same thing in response - heave a sigh and roll his eyes, run a finger along one of many scars crisscrossing his skinny ribcage. “Seems to me if you don’t have to hurt, you shouldn’t.” 

It’s then that she considers herself lucky - maybe he was born into all of this, royalty of the engineering world, but at least she’d been born healthy. Just a year ago, his defective heart had given out and he’d spent the remainder of first grade waiting on a new one. 

She’d gaze at him pitifully for a second and finish tying up her shoes, carefully tucking in the ribbon ends just behind her ankles.  _ What the hell does he know anyway? _

But he persists. He’s there every afternoon when he’s well and hiding out from tutors intent on making him do (he always makes the face and groans theatrically)  _ grade-level work.  _ He watches from a pile of textbooks and notes in the corner, when the tutors have found him first, asks about her day while she stretches and runs through positions. He calls out questions from her own homework over the music and writes furiously as she responds. 

When he’s not so well, forbidden from walking more than a few feet and dizzy from antihypertensives, she’ll practice in the living room of their Manhattan apartment, where he can lay on the couch. When she’s struggling, he’ll still tap out the counts on the floor. And still offer to rebuild her pointe shoes. 

Maybe he knows something about pain. 

When it comes to dealing with Howard, well - she knows the script for this already, too. 

She’d knock on the workshop door, invariably interrupting his work. 

“Enter.” he’d barely flick a glance in her direction. She would take her place a few feet away, not so close as to actually touch him or anything, close enough to be able to speak quietly. A professional distance.  _ Stand without fidgeting, keep your hands at your sides, not twirling your hair or biting hangnails. _ Leftover conditioning from her time at the orphanage - you learn a lot about presentation and manners when you’re competing for parents. 

Here, she feels like she’s competing against everything just for his attention. 

“Yes, sir,” Always sir. Not Papa or Dad, like the other girls at school. Howard, if she was talking  _ about  _ him - usually late at night, complaining to Tony how they seem to exist on separate planets. Occasionally to Maria, mostly in the beginning, before she figured out the pattern. 

Next, she’d tell him about the performance coming up, give dates and times. Just the facts. He wouldn’t care that her friend from school is performing for the first time, or that they got to rehearse with the professional dancers who just did this show last season. He doesn’t care about costume fittings or how encouraging her teacher is. He only ever asks one question. 

“Corps or principal?” He would pause and wait for her to respond, every time. Tools set neatly on the table, one eyebrow slightly raised. 

“Corps,” she’d drop her eyes to the floor so he couldn’t see the tears well up. She’d will them away before raising her head again. Any excitement or pride she’d felt blows away like a handful of dust.  

“We’ll see.” He’d go back to his work and she’d gather every ounce of self control not to just run right out of there. She doesn’t break until she gets to the elevator. She has twenty-two floors to let it all out then compose herself, slipping past the security desk with a quick wave and no questions asked. All anyone else needs to see is the happy Natasha - busy, energetic, grateful to her adopted family. The disappointed but not surprised, tear-streaked and breathless Natasha - that girl got left on the elevator. 

She’d shake her head slightly when Maria asked how things went. 

_ He loves you in his own way,  _ she’d assure the girl, patting a hand or smoothing back hair. Maria tries to love enough for the both of them. But Natasha’s not stupid, and it’s not love she wants from Howard. She just wants him to  _ notice  _ her. Acknowledge her existence. 

She’s not the only one. 

She swears half the stuff Tony thinks up, hell, half the accidents and emergency room trips, too - they’re all just to get Howard to look up from his paper once in awhile. He’s only slightly more successful in capturing Howard’s attention. Even so, when they’re up late on the weekends, long after the adults have retired and they’re watching cartoons armed with two spoons and a quart of strawberry ice cream wedged between them, the truth reveals itself. 

“He doesn’t listen, Nat. He only tells. It’s not what you think it is.” he announces between spoonfuls. Now Natasha heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes. 

“At least he talks to you.” she grumbles and snatches the paper container, settling it on her side. 

“I wish he wouldn’t.” he goes gravely silent for a minute, lets the idea hang in the air between them. 

Moments later, he dives across her lap and steals the ice cream back. She throws her spoon at him. 

They were unlikely siblings in the beginning - Tony, the fragile heir to the Stark legacy, Natasha merely lucky enough to be placed in the orphanage that drew Maria Stark to its door when Tony’s survival seemed doubtful. She understood the concept of a replacement child long before she had the words to describe it. But the way Maria treats both children, she might as well have been a Stark from birth. Nothing is too much or out of the question for either child, and she takes great pleasure indulging their whims. She rearranges business trips, meetings and charity dinners to make time for ballet recitals and science fairs, but even when Maria can’t be there, she and Tony cover for each other. At least they have each other. 

It’s enough for her most days. But not today. Somewhere between the elevator and the workshop door, she regains her confidence. She knows the script, but this time it’s different. This time she won’t hang her head - she will meet his gaze. She will get his attention. 

She remembers to slip back into her sandals before knocking. 

“Enter.” He’s sitting in front of a computer screen when she comes in, faint blue light reflecting off his glasses. The only other light in the room is a work lamp hanging above the table behind him. She can’t see what he’s working on, but she can see he’s been at it awhile. His jacket and tie are draped over another chair, discarded for comfort. Sleeves unbuttoned and pushed back, she can see small cuts and burn scars peppering both forearms. He’s tucked a pencil behind his ear and two small screwdrivers are clipped to his breast pocket. As is customary, he doesn’t look up at her, only unseats his pencil to add to a list nearby. 

Natasha brushes past the empty takeout box teetering on the edge of his desk, takes note of the rumpled blanket hanging half off the couch against the back wall. Howard frequently kept late hours and last night had been no different. Some Very Important Project or Matter of National Security, she could never keep track. Such are the ways of defense contractors. 

Whatever it is, it’s got him engrossed. His hair, jet black and stick straight, stands up in uneven clumps, evidence that he’s spent a good deal of time twisting at it and raking it back with his fingers. She’s watched Tony do the same thing a million times when he’s caught up in something. Which is why she’s all the more shocked to find Howard staring at her from behind the terminal, arms folded and leaning back ever so slightly.  

“Young lady? Are you well?” 

Natasha shakes herself and glances up. “Uh, yeah - yes, sir. Yes, I’m fine.”

She could swear he smirks at her before taking up his work again.  _ Nah, I must be seeing things. Howard Stark doesn’t smile.  _

_ At least not at me.  _

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he prods at the keyboard and the machine issues a series of beeps. 

_ Did he hit his head or something?  _

Natasha draws up all of her four feet and nine inches and finds her voice again. “Umm - I have a performance, sir. Next month.” 

“Huh.” He frowns at the screen, scribbles a string of numbers on the paper. He hasn’t paused again - he will. She taps her fingers on her leg, tries not to bite the inside of her lip. She braces for the question she knows is coming. “What show?” 

“Pri - uhhhh - what?” she falters, staring hard at the man behind the machine. He’s flipping through a nearby book, squinting at the monitor. But he’s smiling. Definitely a smile.  _ What the hell? _

“What will you be performing?” he types a few lines, eyes flitting between the book and the machine. 

“Giselle,”  _ Do not. Twirl. Your hair. _ “Sir.” 

Now, he sets down the book. Lays the pencil diagonally across the paper. Rakes a hand through his hair and leans back again, looks all around the room before he settles on her again. She straightens, focuses on a spot just behind him. “Corps or principal?” 

“Principal, sir.” 

“What part?” The eyebrow goes up. He’s still watching her. For the first time in a long time, probably since she arrived in the states, he’s paying attention. Just to her. 

“Myrtha, sir.” she shifts in place, lets her eyes drop to her feet out of habit. “Queen of the Wilis.” 

Howard scratches at his jaw and that is definitely a grin. “Interesting role. Your mother and I went to see Giselle once - American Ballet Theatre, I believe. Quite a night. You should ask her about it.” 

“Um, I will, sir.” Natasha allows her mouth to curl up in a smile of her own. Howard returns to his desk, takes up the pencil again. 

“Very well, then,” She springs lightly onto the balls of her feet and pivots, ready to bound down the hallway and dance her way home. Howard coughs and she spins back. “When is the performance?” 

“The family performance will be on the sixteenth - our final performance.” he nods and jots down the information. “It’s on a Sunday.” 

“Are you headed home, then?” he asks, flipping the paper to a clean page. “Is your mother home?”  

“Sir?” This is most definitely off-script. She bites her lip. “No - she’s not. Tony has an appointment this afternoon. Cardiologist, I think?” 

Howard sighs and reopens the book. “Is he getting worse?” 

“No, sir. I don’t think so.” 

“Good. Stop by the front desk and have Mr.Coulson walk you home.” 

“Sir, it’s only three blocks.” she protests, even if she is kind of touched that he’s concerned at all. 

“It’s getting dark -”

“At five o’clock?” 

“Well, you know this time of year -”

“April?” She rolls her eyes, but her smile remains. He’s a bigger dork than Tony. “When was the last time you were outside?” 

Howard nudges his glasses up and refocuses on the computer screen. The conversation is over. “Have Coulson accompany you.” 

She throws up her arms in defeat and glides across the floor, secretly tickled that, for once, he seems to care. This time, she gets to spend twenty-two floors giggling at her reflection in the polished elevator doors. When they open onto the lobby, she finds Howard has called ahead. Howard’s head of security waits by the front desk, crisply dressed and zeroing in on her. He joins her as she tries to sneak past, matching her quick stride perfectly. She slows, but only a little. 

“I don’t need a chaperone,  _ Phil _ .” 

“You’re eleven,  _ Natasha _ .” He won’t be discouraged. She makes him walk her to the studio, instead. She should practice. She has an audience to consider, after all.

 

***

 

Natasha rips off another length of athletic tape and wraps her quickly swelling ankle. The last of six performances looms on the horizon. She made it to Sunday, but only just barely. She wrenched her hip and knee in rehearsals, which is continually messing with her balance. She nearly ate it in front of the whole cast during a dress rehearsal, landing badly off a series of jumps. Her entire left foot is a hot mess. She’s pretty sure there’s a broken bone involved and there’s an epic amount of teeth grinding and tape involved in getting into her shoes. 

_ Get through this. Do your job. You finally got his attention - now make him proud of you.  _

“That doesn’t look right, Nat.” Tony watches her get ready backstage, grimacing with her as she ties up the deep violet ribbons matched to the dyed satin pointe shoes. Her costume is a dreamy cloud of purple and midnight blue, dotted with constellations of tiny white flowers and sparkling beads. She feels like a fairy princess despite the pain. She adjusts the flowers pinned in her hair and points a threatening look at her little brother. “I’m calling Mom.” 

She kicks him in the shin with her good foot. “You can’t, dummy - she’s on the plane.” 

Their parents had been called away unexpectedly on Tuesday, an issue with the company requiring that both fly to Germany. Maria, true to form, insisted that all business be concluded in time for them to arrive home Sunday morning. Or at least that was the plan. The latest news is their flight was delayed but they should be landing soon, arriving just in time for the beginning of Act Two and Natasha’s first appearance. 

The good part of her parents’ travel is that they get to stay with Aunt Peggy out on Long Island.Staying with Aunt Peggy is always a treat - she takes in foster kids from time to time, so there’s always people around the house. It’s nice to be able to blend into the noise and bustle, to never really be alone. She’s not really their aunt, but she’s as good as family in the way that she dotes on the kids and pitches in to help Maria whenever she can. Funny thing is, everyone says she was Howard’s friend first - before she retired from the CIA and he threw himself into building an empire - but she can’t remember a single time she’s even seen them in the same room. 

The bad part of her parents’ travel is she has to work that much harder to hide her injuries from Peggy, who just seems to always have an eye on everything. Natasha promises it’s just a sprain, and goes to great lengths to make sure no one sees how bad it really is. She’s pretty sure Peggy’s not buying it, but she doesn’t stop her. 

Just a couple more hours to go. She makes Tony swear up and down he’ll keep his mouth shut until after the performance. 

He gives his sister the side-eye as he hops off his perch on the dressing room counter. She brushes a smudge of powder off the sleeve of his goofy little-boy suit and straightens his bow-tie. She gets a resigned huff and folded arms in response. He ducks away from an attempt to fix his unruly hair. “As soon as the curtain goes down, I’m telling.” 

“Not one second before.” she warns again. He doesn’t say anything, just swings an arm around her and squeezes quickly before disappearing back into the hallway. 

 

*** 

 

“Three minutes, Tasha,” Yulia murmurs next to her ear. Natasha glances up in the darkness and slips off her earphones, giving her friend a weak smile. She’s Natasha’s diametric opposite - like a ghost in the low light to her shadow. Even the flowers tucked along the edges of blonde braids are gauzy and insubstantial. She’s the perfect Giselle. “Are you sure you can do this?” 

 

“I got it, just -” she holds out her arm and whimpers a little. Yulia, who’s not much taller than her, offers enough support to get her off the bench and upright. She brushes a light kiss across Yulia’s cheek, careful not to smudge the stage makeup, and sucks in a deep breath. “Did you see my family out there?”

“It looks like your aunt and cousins are here,” they pick their way carefully around to the other side of the stage, avoiding tiny islands of corps dancers snuggling in blankets to fend off the backstage chill. 

“My dad?” 

Yulia shakes her head. For the first time, Natasha’s afraid. Everything she’s worked for has been for this moment, this audience. 

_ They’ve got to show up.  _ She stumbles a little but Yulia catches her, holds a finger to her lips as they slip past an opening in the curtains. They’re in place and Natasha forces herself to focus only on the music, on the opening strains floating up from the orchestra pit. Yulia glides out on her cue and Natasha chances a quick peek at the audience. She can’t quite see past the footlights, but there’s some movement - maybe people taking their seats late - it’s the right section - it could be them. The only face she can make out for sure is Tony’s, and he’s perched on the edge of his seat, eyes wide and waiting. She forces herself to breathe and takes her first step. At least she’s still got Tony. 

She lets muscle memory take over as she approaches the front of the stage -  _ first turn, second turn - short pause, and up we go _ \- she lands the first jump feeling light, pain seemingly evaporated. This is the moment she’s waited for. She’d hoped it would be in the light of one of Howard’s rare and approving smiles but as she lands another jump flawlessly, she doesn’t care. The realization hits her and throws off her rhythm ever so slightly. 

As she takes the next turn, she catches sight of her brother again. He’s grinning now, flashing her a thumbs up and suddenly she’s back in her living room, surrounded by a New York sunset and with the only person who’s been there for her. Every. Single. Time. 

She lets the music flow over and through her, meets Yulia at center stage and she’s sparkling in the stage lights, squeezes Natasha’s hand before they part again for her to complete the routine. The next two minutes, she’s on her own. All eyes will be on her, and she just couldn’t care less. She knows who matters and who doesn’t. 

She comes out of her final turn balancing delicately on her weak left foot. The pain seeps back in and she pushes through, searches the audience again for encouragement. Barely has time to register the empty seat where Tony was only a few minutes ago before a sickening crunch reverberates up her leg and she goes down. The last thing she sees is Yulia breaking her pose and running toward her. 

 

***

 

She never did find out how long she was out. 

The first time she’s really aware of her surroundings - sunlight slanting across yellow walls, machines beeping steadily in the distance, olive-colored vinyl chairs that are somehow simultaneously heavily padded and wildly uncomfortable. She knows these chairs because usually it’s her butt in them. 

This time it’s Tony, chair scooted right alongside, leaning up against the edge of the bed. He’s asleep with one arm folded up under his head but he looks like he’s about to slide off the chair altogether. She nudges him with the one leg she can feel. 

“That can’t be comfortable,” her voice is raspy from disuse and she can feel the cracks on her lips, but she still breaks into a smile when he wakes. He looks terrible - his eyes are red and there’s snot crusted on the side of his face. He sits up and rakes a sweatshirt sleeve across his face. It doesn’t help. “What happened?” 

“I told before the show ended,” he glances up at the doorway, where Aunt Peggy is standing in hushed conversation with one of the nurses. She’s not in great shape either. Looks like she’s been crying. Even her latest foster kid, Clint - a boy about Tony’s age with a cochlear implant and a thinly-veiled disdain for keeping it on - even he looks wrecked. Natasha gives a little wave and almost immediately, he grabs for Peggy’s hand. 

She doesn’t get why everyone’s so beat up over this - so she broke a bone. Big deal. It’s casted, she’ll heal. Maybe she pushed herself too hard, so what? 

She’s learned to sign a little when they go to Peggy’s - Clint’s funny and impatient and teaches her how to play Mortal Kombat on the TV in the basement. It’s the only time she really feels like a kid. She has a lot left to learn but she recognizes what he’s signing right now. It’s the same thing, over and over. 

_ Awake. She know?  _

“Know what?” she pulls herself upright and stares hard at everyone in the room. It’s the absences that stand out most. “Tony, where’s Mom?”

He just sucks in a breath and stares at the floor. Peggy moves closer now, picks up Natasha’s hand. “Sweetheart, there’s been an accident.” 

“What don’t I know?” Everything seems too bright all of a sudden, corners sharpen and the air thins. She can hear what’s being said, the individual words - they just don’t make sense together. They can’t. 

_ Plane went down - never arrived - they didn’t make it _

_ They didn’t make it.  _

Images slot together in the back of her mind - the people she saw, they weren’t taking their seats late. One wore a uniform. The other was Mr. Coulson. He shouldn’t have been there. Maria should have been there. Howard should have been there. 

Her chest tightens and she has to work to pull in a breath, blinks back tears she doesn’t want, but they come anyway. Peggy’s got her arms around the girl, smoothing back tangled hair, but that’s not what she feels. It’s the little hand wrapped around hers, the familiar weight of her brother curling up next to her. 

At least she still has Tony. 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr - officem0nkey over there


End file.
